


The Weighing of the Wands

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Backstory, Community: hoggywartyxmas, Complicated Relationships, Elder Wand (Harry Potter), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Male Slash, Slash, Wandlore (Harry Potter), Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: Garrick Ollivander, Master Wandmaker, is invited back to Hogwarts to officiate a ceremony of the Triwizard Tournament. As the wands speak to him – diverse in materials, stories and souls – what will he discover about others, and himself?
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Garrick Ollivander
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	The Weighing of the Wands

**Author's Note:**

> Written for therealsnape, in the incomparable hoggywartyxmas fest on LJ: it was my joy and priviledge to write for the hostess-with-the-mostess :-)

Arriving at Hogsmeade station, Garrick filled his lungs with the crisp, autumn air. The platforms were not so busy once the school children were securely installed; there was just the usual flow of shoppers and suppliers. Indeed, Garrick made a mental note to stop by Scrivenshaft’s on the way back – he could do with a smart new inventory book.

He exited the main concourse, and found, with pleasure, that they had laid on a Thestral-drawn carriage for his arrival; that was nice. The carriage doors gleamed with the Hogwarts crest. No driver was apparent, but just inside sat a notice in flamboyant calligraphy: ‘SPECIAL TRANSPORT FOR MR. GARRICK OLLIVANDER, MASTER WANDMAKER’. 

Garrick recognised that handwriting. _The personal touch, eh?_ He found himself grinning – then quickly admonished himself for being daft.

As the vehicle squeaked and trundled up the steep track from the village, Garrick pondered how long it had been since he had last visited Hogwarts. It was hard to say: years fell on the heads of years in a way that was at once nonchalant and relentless, like dust piling in an untouched vault. _Indeed,_ he thought, _how long_ had _it been since he’d last set foot in the old castle?_

Garrick had greatly enjoyed his time at Hogwarts, and had been a strong student. Although his passion to continue the family business had been clear even from the start, he had seen how most of the subjects obviously pertained to wandmaking, and thus had studied them avidly. He had delved into both Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures, always seeking the most powerful magical substances that could be plucked, picked or harvested. Charms and Transfiguration had been a must: for what is a wand, if not the core and wood Transfigured together – bound inextricably as one – and then brought to life by the finest Charms of the craft? The family wand-activating Charms were the most closely-guarded secrets of the Ollivander tradition. They had been shared with Garrick only when he had come of age, under an Unbreakable Vow.

Potions had been a harder stretch, but Garrick’s innate curiosity about magical materials had extended into their combinations and distillations, and his natural dexterity had made him adept at slicing, stirring and simmering _just so_. In fact, Garrick remembered fondly, he had won a class award for Potions, once – and twenty-five points to Ravenclaw, to boot!

Memories pulled and cajoled at Garrick as the carriage creaked its ascent. _Yes_ , he thought, _Hogwarts days had been good to him_.

He frowned at the next recollection, though. Garrick had harboured no aspirations at all to be a warrior, and he had certainly never received his highest marks in Defence. In fact, whenever there had been an opportunity to come face-to-face with some nasty hex or vexatious creature, Garrick had stayed firmly at the back of the queue. Ravenclaws were meant for _thinking_ , not fighting, after all.

He had been an extremely keen _observer_ of the combat, though. By about the third day of lessons, Garrick had memorised the woods, cores and lengths of all his classmates’ wands, and it was a source of endless fascination to him, how those various wizard-wand pairings performed – or, more frequently, did _not_ perform – against the great procession of Boggarts, Pixies, Grindylows and Ghouls that Professor Merrythought saw fit to put in front of the children. He smiled to himself, remembering some of the more outlandish combinations. There was that plump boy… what was his name? –Ah yes, _Terrence Hinderspark_ \- whose wand was made from a Kneazle whisker in cherrywood. It mainly gave out just little hacking coughs of magic at inappropriate times, like a Kneazle with a particularly troublesome hairball. And then… oh yes, one of the Black girls – Cassiopeia, wasn’t it? She had an old mahogany wand from the family collection that contained the tail feather of an Augury, and was probably somewhere to be found on a Ministry list of Banned Substances and Artefacts. The thing had been conditioned to do nothing but ill-spirited magic, and the problem was – well, Cassie just wasn’t very horrible. She basically couldn’t work the thing at all, poor thing. Not until seventh year, at least, when she had grown into her family reputation: she started tight-lacing her figure, wearing ghostly-pale makeup and being off-handedly cruel, as if that was some kind of learned trick. Then, the wand had worked just fine.

Flying had been distinctly so-so, reflected Garrick, but that was alright; only thickos were good at flying.

The carriage rounded a particularly sharp bend, and the jolt brought him back to the here and now. The Tournament itself sounded rather entertaining, he thought, even though Garrick wasn’t usually one for competitive sports. He was pleased to have been invited to play some small part in proceedings, and the potential for interesting – though, most probably, inferior – wands in the assembled company was high. He hadn’t been to visit his competitors on the continent for a while, and it would be good to see what they were up to.

And if, in the course of proceedings, he were to spend a few days at Hogwarts… well. 

Many conflicting thoughts threatened to force their way into Garrick’s consciousness, but he pushed them away, firmly. It wouldn’t do to be muddled-headed about things.

He was met at the castle Great Doors by Professor Albus Dumbledore, himself. Albus was wearing luscious purple robes accented in gold, and for a moment, as Garrick climbed the stone steps and the sunlight glinted _just so_ , he looked like some storied medieval king on the threshold of his fortress. A legend; a myth; a fairy-tale come to life.

“Garrick, my old friend! It’s been too long!” Albus spread his arms wide.

A beat passed between them.

“Indeed it has,” replied Garrick. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Why of course!” Albus replied, the bonhomie turned up to maximum force. Not many people would have suspected that Albus might have been overcompensating for feeling just slightly awkward, but that notion crossed Garrick’s mind at the very same time that he chastised himself for wishful thinking. “Do come in,” continued Albus, smoothly, “let me show you to your rooms.”

*****

**Veela Hair**

The Wand-weighing Ceremony was a pretty simple affair, it turned out.

Never one to be late, Garrick had stationed himself in the appointed room well in advance of the start of proceedings, exchanging pleasantries with the Headteachers of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. It seemed a little forward to ask, but he had been sorely tempted to enquire as to the nature of Olympe Maxime’s wand: far longer than average – for obvious reasons – but of a construction that implied magic other than a witch’s. Professor Karkaroff kept his wand closely hidden within his long sleeves; instinctively, Garrick wondered what he was hiding there.

It wasn’t long before Albus swept into the room, the Potter boy in tow. He gave Garrick a little wink and smile at an angle no-one else would have seen, before introducing Garrick and bidding him to come forward. The ceremony seemed all rather formal – and Garrick had to admit, he rather liked the tone and the respect of it all.

It was then his task to examine the wands of the competitors, in turn. He saw no reason to call them in any order other than that in which they happened to be seated: “Miss Delacour, please.”

At the flouncing approach, Garrick began to wish he’d chosen someone else, first. He had nothing against girls, or the French, but there was something about this one that… immediately set his teeth on edge.

Garrick took the proffered wand. “Hmmm…” That feeling of slight distaste intensified. 

For Garrick, handling the wand of another was a far more profound experience than it was for the average witch or wizard. So attuned he was to the nature and individuality of wands, the wands… _spoke_ to him; revealed their secrets. 

When asked, he would describe the effect as something like Legilimency, but the mental state required was quite different: absorptive, rather than penetrative; intuitive rather than intellectual. Garrick did not need to cast _Priori Incantanem_ to see whispers of past work, but neither did the castings of the wand present themselves in a forced, orderly fashion, like a deliberate series of Charms. No; he communed with the wand, and gained its trust. It would tell him what it wanted to tell – and that was usually rather a lot. Garrick fancied himself not only as a wand-maker, but also as a wand-whisperer. _It was rather fun._

This one, though… _oh, dear_. “Yes, nine and a half inches… inflexible… rosewood… and containing… dear me…”

“An ‘air from ze ‘ead of a Vella. One of my grandmuzzer’s.”

The girl in front of him now was just of age, and she knew it. Quite a little minx, this one.

Garrick relaxed his mind into the flighty Veela core. There was a Beauxbatons Professor: male, about Garrick’s own age. Fleur made a show of crossing her legs so that her silky little skirt flitted up to reveal a smooth white expanse of thigh, crossed by the straps of a blue garter-belt. _“Are you sure my assignment only gets a B-plus grade, Professeur? I would_ so _like to be ze top-scoring student to go to ze Tournament…”_

_Oh, _dear_ ,_ thought Garrick again, withdrawing quickly. The Veela hair purred in his hand, like an over-eager seductress at a roadside carnival. Fleur simpered up at him. Its rosewood sheath gave off an almost sickly scent. 

He would be having none of this nonsense.

“Orchideous!” said Garrick, abruptly – and it behaved itself then, at least. “Very well, very well, it’s in fine working order.”

Fleur sashayed back to her chair, and Garrick tutted under his breath about wands that fancied themselves master manipulators. Typically shallow, they were. And disloyal. You should never trust a wand that calls too loudly; that flaunts itself; that wants to be taken and used without good judgement and proper restraint. He knew that, for a fact.

***

_December, 1945_

The tap on Garrick’s workshop window came around one o’clock in the morning, from the pitch-dark. He was terrified. The war had seen so many casualties like this; murders in the dead of night.

Instinctively, he cast a Charm to strengthen the wards about the building, and then trained his wand at the window, feeling terror creep over his every nerve as he waited for the aggressor to show himself.

The lights around the yard all went out, as if they had been Deluminated on purpose. Garrick began to shake.

A long pause followed. Finally, a faint wand-light began to glow from behind the glass, revealing…

“-Merlin’s balls, Albus!” Garrick felt suddenly dizzy with relief. “You nearly scared the living daylights out of me!”

“Sorry,” said Albus, although he was smirking slightly. He let himself in, temporarily enlarging the window to step through.

“Gods, I haven’t seen you since… How _are_ you? And what’s going on? I really thought…”

“I know. I’m sorry.” It sounded more as if he meant it, this time. “Shall we have some tea?”

“Um… well… yes, alright,” managed Garrick, and flicked a Charm in the direction of the pot. He gestured for Albus to sit down, and they settled either side of the little coffee table, regarding one another with a silence that was far more eloquent than any words Garrick might have been able to conjure, just then.

Soon enough, some freshly-brewed cups levitated over, and Garrick handed one to Albus.

“How very kind. Thank you.” Albus crossed his legs and put down his wand to accept the cup.

Immediately, Garrick’s eyes flew to the object that lay there. He looked up to Albus – who smiled back in a benign sort of way, as if there wasn’t anything particular to mention.

Garrick wasn’t fooled for a second, though. To a general observer, it may have seemed a casual action, but Garrick knew better; _everything_ Albus did was deliberate. He was supposed to have noticed.

He decided not to prolong the dance. Garrick cleared his throat, carefully. “New wand, Albus?”

Albus nodded.

All of a sudden – and quite by surprise – Garrick felt himself flooded with indignant hurt and rejection. It welled up in his chest and pricked behind his eyes. “You didn’t like the one that I…?”

“-Oh, I did! I do!” The rush of reassurance actually seemed quite… real. Garrick felt a little mollified, despite himself. “It’s just that…” Albus continued, “I won this one in the duel, and I think I need to make sure it keeps itself out of trouble.”

Garrick blinked, then he frowned. _What an odd thing to say._ “Who made it?” he asked, with caution.

Albus shrugged, unassumingly. “I don’t know. It’s old...”

Garrick turned his attention to the wand on the table. The wood was dark; gnarled, yet polished from many years of handling. It had runes carved upon it – ancient runes that he couldn’t interpret at first glance – and yet… the more he looked at the wand, the more that Garrick felt he couldn’t tear away his gaze. He began to hear a faint hissing sound, rhythmic and hypnotic. The wand was calling to him; reaching out; asking to be taken…

“May I…?” he breathed. Garrick’s fingers flexed and itched, and his tongue darted out to lick his lip. He felt himself impelled to handle that wand. To hold it. To _know_ it.

Albus appeared to hesitate – but then, he calmly lifted the dark Siren-thing, and placed it horizontally into Garrick’s quivering palms.

When the wood first touched his skin, Garrick felt something akin to both a glorious shock and desperate longing – like one who at once overindulges in Felix Felicis and suffers its terrible withdrawal effects. He heard himself gasp, but the sound seemed very far away. Garrick stared intently at the thing in his hands. “Elder…” he murmured, “with a core of… now what is that? …Don’t tell me…”

Garrick closed his eyes, sending his mind deep inside the wand core. He was not prepared for what he would find, there, however.

There was blood and horror, as far as his mind could see – violence and destruction stretching out over generations and centuries in a great, bleak, never-ending battlefield. He saw strident shots of green light… and countless victims disembowelled; cut to shreds; scarred; decapitated. There were crows picking over corpses, ghosts haunting their own demise, and dilapidation and neglect and disease in the wake of war… and most disturbingly of all, the whole melee was overlaid with a sense of riotous _glee_ – as if this sick thing actually took delight in the pain, the devastation, the grief of it all. Lapping up the cruelty, and feeding off it; becoming stronger as it called to the next victim, and the next, and the next – showing that it had no purpose other than glorifying in death itself.

As he watched, and the wand’s core wormed its way into his mind like some claw-toothed parasite compelling its hapless host, Garrick felt himself drowning. He was becoming swept away in the scenes before him; lost… sinking below the sea of terror and carnage and... his mind pulled at it for a moment, desperate not to fall victim… but it was too strong, too much, too terrible, and he fell away into darkness.

When Garrick woke, he found that he had been propped up on the workroom sofa. His mouth was dry and the skin on his hands pulsated as if he had been burned.

Albus was looking at him with concern, but said nothing, instead pressing a glass of water to his lips.

Garrick took a sip – and then his eyes flew wide open in realisation. “Is this…?” he gasped. His mind was reeling.

Albus nodded.

“By Merlin!” Garrick began to choke after he’d cried out, and Albus shushed gently, saying that he should recover before asking any more questions.

But despite the shock and nausea, Garrick couldn’t help feeling a burst of excitement. _This was it._ The Elder Wand. The Wand of Destiny. The Deathstick. Now, how he longed to analyse it – to unpick its very being and to learn everything he could about its enchantment. There was no wand of greater fame and reputation, no wand further shrouded in mystery and Alchemy of the past. He found himself utterly fascinated, even as the thing was repellent. _But what extraordinary magic._

As if reading his thoughts, Albus assumed his best expression of managing expectations. “I can’t leave it here for study, I’m afraid. But if I may, I’d like to ask for your help. I need to understand it. I need to use it – but to create, not to destroy… and I fear…” Albus looked down at the black wand, and gave a small, humourless laugh, “…it has other ideas.”

Garrick nodded and sat up straight, thinking hard. “Alright. Hold it.”

Albus obliged, grasping the wand as one would for Casting. A strange power began to radiate into the room – a thrumming that could neither be heard nor seen, but that Garrick could _feel_. All of his wizardly intuition prickled in awareness. The sense permeated everything – matter and magic, and the empty spaces between particles that even the very air cannot fill. The wands around and about the workshop seemed to squeal and cower in its presence, and Garrick almost wanted to run to their aid.

Garrick had never before had trouble reading the relationship between a wand and its Master; indeed, much of his business was built on this ability. This pairing however… told him nothing.

It was a formidable power, there was no doubt. A megalithic, impersonal force – and one that felt very, very cold, like the farthest reaches of the universe; like death.

Albus was merely an inanimate conduit in its journey. There was no fondness there. No bond, no regard.

Albus was watching him closely, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “And?” he asked. The tone was calm, but Garrick could hear a tension beneath the surface.

He would not mince his words. “It doesn’t love you. It doesn’t even care about you… And it never will.”

Albus nodded, gravely. He swallowed hard, and put the wand away in his sleeve. He was clearly trying to be brave.

The impenetrable thrumming at an end, Garrick found he could think and feel more clearly. “Must you carry this, my friend?”

“It is my burden to bear.” Albus’ gaze dissolved into the floor, and for a long moment there was silence, the implications rolling over both of them like waves on a winter shore. Then, Albus found Garrick’s eyes once more. “Will you keep my secret?” he whispered, looking suddenly vulnerable and so alone it almost broke Garrick’s heart.

“I promise, my friend. To my death, I promise.”

*****

**Unicorn Hair**

Garrick had never really understood Hufflepuffs. Not disliked them; no. Just never _understood_ them. How was it possible to have such _conviction_ about something without actually being _interested_ in it?

The boy in front of him now was indeed full of selfless conviction; fair play and good sportsmanship, and so forth. Garrick felt rather uncharitable when he caught himself reflecting that it seemed all rather… pointless? 

Where was the analysis; the dissection of ideas; the systems-thinking? How could one gain satisfaction from _doing the right thing_ , if the ‘right thing’ hadn’t been derived from first principles, systematically trialled, and improved incrementally through iterations of hypothesis testing and methodical tweaks? Where was the reward, without that?

Inwardly, Garrick shrugged – and made a mental note that this was surely all a manifestation of his _own_ character flaws, and not young Mr. Diggory’s. Yes; one had to be fair. Not everyone can be blessed with an intellectual calling, after all.

To make up that unspoken slight to the doubtless good fellow, Garrick examined Cedric’s wand particularly carefully. Now here was something to be enthusiastic about, at least!

“Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn’t it?”

He launched into the tale of the unicorn tail with enthusiasm and only minor elaborations; from the corner of his eye, Garrick fancied he had spotted Albus smirking. They both knew that Garrick wasn’t the sort for physical danger, after all. Why stand in the path of a dangerous creature when you could devise a perfectly good Charm for plucking its tail safely at a distance? Well, quite.

The audience seemed to enjoy the story, though; everyone was perfectly still and listening intently. Garrick fancied that he could grow accustomed to this _official expert_ malarkey.

He closed his eyes and reached into the wand core. Being his own creation, it was easy to read the works and wonders of this instrument; it welcomed him with open arms, as an old friend.

Everything it had to tell was wholesome. Cedric had been practicing – again and again and again. There were some standard duelling moves in there, but mainly defensive Charms; lots of them. A little before that – ah, sweet. He’d Summoned some hot chocolate and biscuits for a homesick first-year; done his homework; written to his mother. There was a girl floating around the edges of all his thoughts – pretty, with dark hair and clever eyes. They’d had some nice times together but… Garrick stepped away at that point; he didn’t want to pry. 

Instead, he exchanged pleasantries with the boy and cast a wordless Charm; the wand behaved just as it should. The unicorn hair glowed at him still, so honest and open.

Oh, the unicorn, the beautiful beast. The stability of its magic was such a joy, calm and deep as the Great Lake. It was the most forgiving material with which to work – adaptable, non-judgemental, and would do its very best to partner with the widest range of woods. On a day when there was a shaft of soft sunshine on his work table, peace in the shop, and no trouble from Knockturn Alley, Garrick would make all his wands from unicorn.

He hoped that something about their equanimous genesis would enrich their holders, when it was their turn to Choose. Unicorn was enough to bring out the best in anyone.

***

_February, 1944_

Garrick had walked there in the rain. Even in peacetime, Hogwarts’ wards prevented apparition into the castle grounds, and with the dark threat from the continent becoming more real every day, these extended into the village and the valley beyond. 

It had been a long slog. His robes were sodden with chill; despite even Garrick’s best attempts at waterproofing Charms, the rain seemed to be blowing downwards, upwards and sideways from the mountains, permeating every pore and weave. The gloom of the day was settling into dusk already, and Garrick lit his wand to pick out the ragged path up to the castle. He only hoped that what he was planning to say might engender some level of illumination, also.

At the Entrance Gates, the wards stopped him from going any further. He was foxed at first, but then noticed a tiny, brass, Muggle-like contraption screwed to the gatepost, that consisted of what seemed to be an ear-trumpet and a sound-box. Above it, a rusting plaque said, ‘CALLERS’.

Against the tearing wind, Garrick listened intently. After a long pause and several rumbling, grating sounds, the voice of Apollyon Pringle, Hogwarts caretaker for over four decades, growled, “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Professor Dumbledore,” shouted Garrick into the device.

“Are yer now?”

“Yes.” He felt somewhat at a loss, and began to improvise. “Tell him it’s on official business, on the… err… Gionettini Pact. Yes; I need to see him. Tell him Garrick Ollivander needs to speak with him.”

“Heh.” Pringle seemed to be considering. The crackling of the line stretched on. “Well, yer can walk up. But if the Pr’fesser don’t think yer kosher, we’ll hex yer into next week, alright.”

“Thanks,” said Garrick, trying to contain his distaste. The wards lifted, and he continued his trudge upwards. 

The path led to a side-door of the castle, an entryway used just by staff and deliveries. Mercifully, the door was open, leading into a cubic atrium at the foot of a rough-hewn staircase. The only light came through the ancient arrowslits on the walls; `as Albus descended the flights his silhouette was haloed in weak grey, a tired glow about to give up its ghost of day.

“Garrick. What a surprise.” It was difficult to tell whether he considered the surprise a positive or negative one. “You didn’t Owl to say you were coming.”

“I didn’t want to give you the opportunity to avoid me.” Garrick tried to make it sound as if he was joking.

Albus smiled, spread his hands, and looked faux-offended. “ _Would_ I?”

Garrick didn’t answer. They both knew he might have.

“And how are…” – a pause, as Albus seemed to be deciding whether or not he remembered the relevant names – “…your family?” he settled upon, diplomatically.

Garrick rolled his eyes, ever-so slightly. “They’re fine. Thank you.” Albus was wearing black, Garrick registered. _He never wore black_. Garrick pressed his lips together.

“Well, do come up to my office. We can talk about that fascinating Italian pact you mentioned to dear Apollyon.” He smirked, and Garrick reflected that spark of amusement. _Oh, good._

Albus led Garrick up many flights of stairs and across many moving landings to his rooms in Gryffindor Tower; the memories rolled and creaked in Garrick’s mind as the woodwork swayed and shifted.

On the threshold, Garrick took in the scene. The room was strewn with erratic stacks and piles of books, parchment, devices and potions ingredients. To the casual observer, it would look like any busy Professor’s hideaway, but Garrick knew different: when Albus was absorbed in something, the pages lay open, and here they were closed; when he was mid-brew, there were vials in neat lines, and here they sat in a desultory muddle; when he was calculating, the spheroid arithmancer whirred and clicked in the background, and here it lay silent. The scene spoke clearly: Albus hadn’t been able to concentrate for months.

Albus went to poke at the fire with an iron and some Charms, almost as if he was embarrassed by its absence. Garrick regarded Albus’ silhouette. He was looking too thin; the black of his robes combined with his red beard newly streaked with white, gave the impression of a flame burned in the grate to its very lowest ebb. Garrick’s heart ached at the sight.

Finally, they settled in a pair of chairs with some dingy lamplight and a tad a warmth. Albus seemed tense. “So… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Garrick took a deep breath. “I’ve come to offer my services.”

Albus stayed carefully silent. Garrick went on, filling the empty space. “Albus, let me help you. You know I’m not much of a duellist, but I can co-ordinate; develop Charms; trace the enemy on the Continent; raise an army. Anything that you think a Ravenclaw could do to assist, really – which I posit is a fair deal. I can move to the castle and be a base of operations for you, or we could travel together to Paris – I could stay with Flamel, if you like, or we could stay together and… well.” Terrible as the war was, Garrick felt himself becoming a bit excited at these suggestions. “Surely two heads have got to be better than one.”

Albus had tipped his head to one side as he listened. He allowed another long pause to resonate between them. “Thank you, old friend. But I have to do this myself.”

Garrick twitched in impatience. “But think about it, Albus! If I had a better trace on their wands, I could create some specific disablement, I’m sure. I know they’re mainly using Gregorovitch models, but as soon as you capture one, I’ll be able to dissect it, and find the specific maker’s trace. From there, it should be easy to…” Garrick’s thesis petered out as Albus shook his head slowly and sadly. “But you’re just being stubborn!”

“Yes.” There was something so inscrutable about the way Albus said it, Garrick’s hopes fell down about him like the rain outside.

Another great block of silence stretched between them, the fight in Garrick’s breast faltering; waning away. Finally, he sighed deeply. “I thought you might say that… So I brought you this.”

Garrick revealed the object that he had been hiding in his robes. He’d spent two whole weeks making it – sourcing exactly the right materials, shaping, polishing… working and crafting that wand, until he was sure it was the finest he had ever made. It had been a labour of love.

“A new wand?” Albus must have been shocked; it was not like him to state the obvious.

Garrick held it out. Albus was slow to reach forward, but finally received the wand with care, and examined it closely. “Ebony and…” he frowned, feeling the magic resonate from inside, “ _Unicorn?_ ” The surprise was apparent in his voice.

Garrick nodded. “Yes. No disrespect to my father, rest his soul, but I was never quite convinced that aspen with dragon heartstring brought out the best in you.”

Albus’ eyes widened at that; a wand was a very personal thing, after all. 

Although Garrick had thought about the exchange in advance, he worried afresh that he had overstepped the bounds of their… friendship.

-And still, Albus did not reply. Garrick watched him as the initial affront melted away into a deeper contemplation; there was a flicker of terror, and then his eyes swam into the middle-distance, focussed miles and decades away. The silence stretched on. 

Some moments later, though, Albus furrowed his brow with an intellectual mien. “But _you_ claim, ‘The wand chooses the wizard’, so how…?” He gestured vaguely at himself and the gift.

“Yes. But don’t you worry about that.” Now it was Garrick’s turn to be cryptic. He had thought of Albus every moment while making that wand, his regard being chiselled into every curve, knot and facet. There was no way on earth that it would not fit. “Well, go on, try it out.”

Albus raised his eyebrows, but for once did as he was told and held the wand as if to Cast. He closed his eyes for a moment, then out gushed a Patronus of such vivid brightness, it transformed the gloom of the turret into a sea of twinkling wonder. The phoenix that flew about them was the clearest that Garrick had ever beheld, too; each strand of every feather was in sharp relief, and its glistening eyes looked almost alive.

As he watched that magical bird swoop and swirl, Garrick dearly wished to know upon which happy memory Albus had drawn to create it – but he didn’t ask, in fear of the answer. Instead, he just watched Albus break into a smile… or rather, it wasn’t primarily a _smile_ , but a loosening of tension about the eyes and the brow that looked far more real, far more satisfying, than any actual smile could have.

“It’s perfect,” breathed Albus, mirroring Garrick’s own thoughts. “Thank you, my friend. Thank you so very much.”

After that, they spoke more freely with one another, but about nothing of real consequence. The dark had encroached fully, and the weather beating the tower windows was getting no better; it was clear that Garrick needed to start the journey back.

Albus escorted him back down to that small hallway. They said their farewells and edged toward an embrace. It was stiff at first; perfunctory. But then, as they held each other, the years and reserve and regrets rolled away and they melted together, familiar shapes and forces and figures, hands nestled into the smalls of backs and a cheek nestled into the curve beneath a chin.

“I miss you,” breathed Garrick, into Albus’ silver-streaked auburn locks.

A long moment passed as both were perfectly still and silent, entwined in the moment. Garrick closed his eyes, breathing in Albus’ scent.

“Likewise.” Albus said it so quietly, Garrick would later wonder whether he had heard it at all.

-Especially as Albus then detached himself as quickly as if he had been burned, and sped away up the stone stairs with the most cursory of goodbyes. Garrick was left standing alone in the chill, draughty hall, to let himself out.

*****

**Dragon Heartstring**

The next in line was the competitor from Durmstrang, all eyebrows and thudding gait. Garrick had heard he was a flyer, and that he could quite believe: rather like a Ukranian Ironbelly, the boy didn’t look comfortable on the ground.

Krum moved forward and thrust his wand into Garrick’s hands. There was a hint of challenge, there; a confidence, bordering on arrogance. It was the Durmstrang way.

“Hmm, this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I’m much mistaken?” Garrick turned the wand in his hands. _Fascinating._ “A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I…”

Garrick had met Mykew Gregorovitch a handful of times, and they maintained a wary respect for one another. Wandmakers were solitary creatures, after all; secrecy was inherent in the craft. He could not deny that Gregorovitch was a worthy competitor, however. There was a boldness to the man’s work that would complement a fearless wielder, the marrying of core and wood particularly fast and tight with old, uncompromising magic. 

What those wands tended to lack, though, was finesse. They were constructed in black and white; primary colours, at best. There was little room for variation, subtlety of shading, or individual interpretation. A Gregorovitch wand would thunder away with great might, but would then become slow and confused if challenged with more nuanced Casting. Garrick was pretty sure the difference lay in the way each maker inured the core to the wood. 

-The thing is, pondered Garrick, wand core substances do not naturally _like_ being encased. They carry the spirit of free-living creatures, after all – and it takes a certain approach to tame that spirit into a wooden sheath. The Gregorovitch way is simply to force the pairing; to dominate the materials until they yield to the maker’s will. Garrick took a different view. He would introduce the core to a range of woods and let them sit together for a while; to commune; to become friends. He would leave them like that for some weeks, and over time it became clear to which wood the core had developed an affinity. After that, only gentle magic was needed to cause the pair to bond – and it was a bond that would serve a lifetime of change, growth and adaptation. An _arranged marriage_ versus a _union of soulmates_ , if you will. 

Luckily, ‘finesse’ was not what the young wizard now before Garrick seemed to demand. His wand was literal-minded: thick, stiff and, err… Garrick nearly giggled like a fifth-former as he completed that train of thought. _Ahem._

However… _how interesting!_ “Yes… Hornbeam and dragon heartstring?” It was a combination for which Garrick had a considerable soft spot, being the composition of his own wand. The boy clearly had a passion, then.

Garrick sent his mind forth – politely, to start with. The wand seemed rather suspicious of the intrusion on first touch, but opened up quickly to a fellow carrier of hornbeam.

And yes… it was all there. For all his teenage glowering, Viktor had been a winsome child – with dark curly hair and pudgy cheeks wreathed with smiles. There he was, straddling a broom, before he’d even been able to talk. His little fingers clasped the handle, and his eyes widened in wonder when it first lifted off the ground. His father cheered; he gurgled. The heartstring whizzed forward in time, eager and rambunctious. There were catches and injuries and loop-the-loops. Indeed, for Viktor, life and flying – life and _Quidditch_ – had been perfectly synonymous. Junior try-outs, intermediate training camps… selection and glory in the national team. It had been one clear broom-ride all the way, and he wanted nothing else.

Garrick withdrew, and gave a small smile. For all that he was uninterested in sports, the single-minded _dedication_ of the boy did speak to him. Indeed, it made Garrick think of when he had first come to wandmaking, at the knee of his grandfather, Gerbold Octavius. The first time he had managed to splice a magical ingredient into wood and create a spark – it was a spark that would serve him throughout his whole life.

The wand in his hand pulsed with urgency and enthusiasm; it had little time for recollection, and wanted to get on. Ah yes, _dragon heartstring_ , though Garrick: impatient; impulsive; passionate; powerful.

But he was going to make it wait, just for a moment. This particular core – he searched again, within – was from the pellet of a large, old Romanian Longhorn. Quite a beast!

Most people didn’t properly understand dragon heartstring, of course. For one thing, they assumed that you’d have to kill a dragon to harvest some. Of course, some foolish Apothecaries had been known to do so for a quick Sickle, but heartstring of decent potency could never be found from a _dead_ dragon, Garrick knew full well. No; proper heartstring is sloughed-off from the inner workings of the creature in moments of excitement and fervour, and then you have to pick through the effluvia – the coughed-up boluses of flint and limestone that dragons produce every so often, and especially after an energetic spell of fire-breathing – to get some. It was not a glamourous task. Again, Garrick had a dealer for such things.

Viktor was shifting from foot to foot, now. Garrick took pity upon him, and shouted, “Avis!” The twelve golden birds that shot from the wand looked like whirring Snitches. _Of course they did._

Krum lumbered back to his seat, and Garrick felt his own wand vibrate a little in his sleeve, so attuned they were to each other. How it bubbled up in Garrick’s mind: the calling; the fire; the passion.

***

_August, 1912_

Garrick looked about the shop, as if inspecting it for the first time. He’d made quite a few changes in these past two months. New shelving, new paintwork in tasteful tones of blue and bronze – but most importantly, he’d moved over fully to the new system: numerous wand-woods, but three cores only. Unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, phoenix feather. The best, and only the best; that was all.

He rearranged the display for the umpteenth time, combed his hair again, and felt his palms prickle. The merry voices of shoppers in Diagon Alley wafted from outside, even though he had set the shop sign to ‘CLOSED’. He was expecting a visitor.

A few minutes past the appointed time, Albus swept in, looking as ravishing as ever. He was wearing burgundy robes, the colour of red wine and kisses. “Garrick!” he called, and Garrick’s heart did a somersault. As if he’d been caught by an Accio spell, Garrick felt himself move from behind the shop counter to embrace Albus, all smiles and hearty hugs.

When they parted, Albus’ features settled into a more serious expression. “I’m so sorry about your father. I would have come sooner, but…”

Garrick waved away the apology. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely. “But it’s alright. He was old, and had enjoyed a good life.”

Albus nodded. “Very wise, my friend.” A gentle understanding passed between them. “So… I guess that means that you’re the official proprietor, now?”

“Indeed.”

“And…” Albus glanced around the shop, “it’s all looking terribly smart! Ravenclaw colours, I see…”

“Naturally.”

“…and new shelving, new window displays…”

Garrick glowed with pride as Albus noticed all that he had done. “Do you like it?” he asked, rather redundantly.

“Yes, yes. But there’s a new motto as well, I hear: ‘The wand chooses the wizard’. The old-school aren’t going to like that!”

Garrick snorted in amusement. “They don’t.”

Albus grinned. “Well, good on you.”

Garrick invited Albus through to the cosy sitting room at the back of his workshop. Not being much of a cook, he’d ordered some bits and pieces for lunch from Madam Puddifoot’s, and had readied a bottle of elf-made wine to go with. Albus commented on the generous spread.

They sat down to tuck in, and the food, wine and conversation flowed as freely as ever. Albus had been visiting collaborators in Peru on the dragon blood project, and had come across the most fascinating astronomical phenomena from an old pyramid in Machu Picchu.

“You didn’t see any Peruvian Salamanders, did you?” asked Garrick, pushing away his plate. “Obviously, they’re related to dragons – only they breathe fire even more potently – so I’ve always wondered about working with salamander heartstring…”

“No, but it’s an interesting idea. The witches at Castelobruxo have tropical wood wands, as you’d imagine, but I’m afraid I neglected to find out about the cores for you.”

Garrick smiled. “Ah, well. Next time.”

“Indeed.” Albus finished his wine. “That was lovely; thank you. 

“So, tell me, my dear… are you free this evening? I’m in London until tomorrow, with nowhere in particular I have to be…” He waggled his eyebrows, rakishly.

Garrick felt himself blush and his blood run hot at just the thought. Oh, how easy it would be to just go along with things; that was what he _wanted_ to do, but… “Yes. Yes I am…”

“-Excellent.” Albus smiled in that way that made Garrick melt to his very core, like sunbeams on chocolate. “I daresay even a brand new business-owner is allowed a little recreational time off, mmm?”

Garrick felt himself grin. “That’s surely true. But…” He took a deep breath. “But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, if that’s alright?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” Albus rearranged his features into an expression of polite enquiry.

Garrick felt a little lightheaded now, but resolved to push on. “You might remember Daisy Fawley?” The words felt thick and chewy as he forced them between his lips. Albus frowned slightly, the name obviously not registering. “Sweet girl,” Garrick continued, “Not entirely stupid. Ravenclaw a couple of years below us.”

“Ah.” Albus nodded in assent, sounding slightly puzzled as to the relevance.

“Yes, well the thing is…” Garrick paused, still wondering whether he would manage to say it at all, “…What with me heading up the business now… Mother is becoming pretty insistent that I marry.”  
That, of course, was a remarkably English understatement on Garrick’s part. ‘Threats of Disownment from the Ollivander line,’ would have been more accurate. As the oldest living family member, his mother was the Keeper of a thousand years of magical Craft; if pushed, she could and would cut Garrick adrift from all that was familiar, and all he could do. The tradition came first, the individuals, second; it had always been that way. Garrick’s younger brother would certainly not complain at being named the heir in Garrick’s stead – of that, Garrick was sure. 

“And Daisy’s lined-up, so to speak,” he finished, rather lamely.

A great pause came to settle on the room, as Garrick searched Albus’ eyes and felt Albus staring straight into his soul, in return. Albus blinked several times. Garrick chewed his lip. Finally, Albus took a steadying breath. “Well… I suppose congratulations are in order, then,” he said, carefully.

Garrick sighed. He looked down at the table, and then screwed his eyes tight shut, willing himself to say the words that he had, by now, many times rehearsed. “But it doesn’t… it doesn’t have to be like this…”

“What do you mean?” The words were quiet and coiled tight, like an animal that didn’t know whether to pounce or run.

“Gods, Albus!” The stress and exasperation had now boiled over in Garrick’s breast. He couldn’t handle any more oblique references; any more missed opportunities; any more unspoken passions. “This… this _thing_ we have… where we meet up from time to time and have the most amazing conversations and the most amazing… sex… It could be so much more. I _want_ it to be so much more.”

Albus stayed silent, his face slack and his lips slightly parted. But Garrick pushed on. He couldn’t stop the words now; they were tumbling out end on end, making a bid for freedom straight from the prison of his heart.

“I’m not clingy; you know that. You couldn’t drag me away from my workshop if you wanted to, but the reason that I… that is, the reason that… Damn it…” He took another deep breath. “The reason that I _love you_ , is that you wouldn’t want to, in the first place. And that’s because you’re just so busy being… being fucking marvellous. -Which I admire greatly, and would love to know more about and be closer to, and be the person to whom you could speak and _be_ with of an evening… because I flatter myself to say that you and I are an intellectual match for one another, and one needs that, in life.” 

Garrick gasped for air, and drew his wits about him to carry on. “So, I want to ask you whether… that is, I mean to say… it would work out, because we’re not in competition with our interests, now, are we? I know I could never marry another Wandmaker, and I daresay you wouldn’t marry a Teacher or an Alchemist or a Magical Theoretician. But you and I – we’re complementary. We could support each other. Encourage each other.” He looked at Albus, imploringly, just as another wave of feeling crashed over him, smothering his attempts at logical argument.

“-And Merlin, Albus, there is a _spark_. Every time we meet over these years I feel it, and I _know_ you do too, or you wouldn’t keep coming back. We should let that spark become a fire! We could be fabulous together.”

Still, Albus said nothing. His eyes glistened, and his face – usually so full of life and animation – had drained of colour.

In the silence, with that internal war going on just beyond his reach, Garrick said it again. This time he heard himself beg: “We could be _fabulous_ together.”

“We could be dangerous together.” The words came from a throat made of sandpaper.

“Agh!” Garrick hit the table, making the crockery clatter as he squinted his eyes shut, and his heart pressed into his throat. “Is it _still_ about that bloody German? Really? After all these years? I’m nothing like him!”

“No, you’re not, my friend,” said Albus, sadly, “But I, alas, am still very much like _me_.” 

“-And that’s exactly what-”

“-I’m sorry.” Albus had found his voice, now, and he said it with such finality that Garrick’s next protestation died before it reached his lips.

The spirit that had been powering Garrick had been quashed, and he felt suddenly at a loss; adrift. He buried his face in his arms, not wanting Albus to see him sob.

Garrick didn’t even look up when the other chair scraped backwards, and a gentle hand rested on his shoulder. “I really _am_ sorry.” 

He only heard the retreating footsteps through his dowry of new cabinets and fresh paint; through his displays of current stock and best inventions, that had really meant to be shared. The sound of the front door clicking shut cut the strings of Garrick’s heart like a knife.

*****

**Phoenix Feather**

“Harry Potter.”

A nervous black haystack-on-legs shuffled toward him, and the level of the scrutiny in the room turned up ten notches. 

Garrick peered down at the underage wizard who shouldn’t be in the competition in the first place, and gave a sigh. _Poor boy._ It was even worse that the damned pernicious journalist was hovering around him, like a Doxy swarm in a wandwood sapling.

From the corner of his eye, Garrick saw Albus stand ever-so-slightly more to attention. _It was sweet, really._ For all those years, and all those hundreds of children he had raised, entertained and sent out into the world, Albus had never indulged a paternal streak – until now.

Garrick pondered as to why that might be. He knew the story, of course. Everyone in wizarding Europe did: the fall of the Dark Lord at the hands of a mere babe. Was the boy particularly magical, then? Were rumours of ‘The Chosen One’ true?

Indeed, Garrick wondered whether perhaps Albus’ caring countenance was not as wholesome as it first seemed. _Was he being tempted again?_

-Gosh, not like _that_. But by the allure of power. Magic beyond earthly imaginings… The tantalising idea that in this unassuming little vessel lay the key to victory and defeat; mastery and subordinance; life and death. After dry decades, was Albus bending his morals, lifting his self-imposed purdah? It was an interesting thought.

With that, Garrick turned his attention to the wand he was being proffered by small, shaking hands. “Aaaah, yes.” His mouth went dry and his eyes swum decades away as the wood touched his palms. “Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember…”

It was of holly, harvested in Godric’s Hollow on Christmas Eve. The weather had been crisp and still; quite beautiful, as they had walked hand-in-hand that night – so young, so naïve, so hopeful. Albus had teased him for wanting to stop, but it had been a particularly good tree – tall and fulsome, and covered with merry red berries. The tree had willingly yielded a branch, and they had kissed under the starlight, holly as their mistletoe, up above.

The wood had remained in Garrick’s collection for years. He’d often considered using it to make a wand, but couldn’t quite part with it, so the lovely little branch had sat in his own part of the workshop all through his father’s ownership. It had become a reminder of his hopes and heart; a talisman, of sorts.

On that night, when Albus had said ‘no’ and left him all alone, Garrick had gone out to gather yew. The next day, he had fashioned two wands: one of love, and one of hurt. The holly branch finally was put to purpose; his feelings were turned, tucked, Charmed and put away – ploughed into his work and synthesised into something new and neat – for he could not bear to hold them in his breast any longer. The yew had been stained with tears as he had worked. Desolate tears of loss – but most of all, tears borne of injustice at the stupidity of it all; knowing that as he shaped that dark wood, cutting and slicing into angular forms, his life was being irrevocably shaped by fear and bad decisions.

Within each wand he had placed a feather – the feather that sang to him now.

***

_June, 1898_

It was convenient that the Founders had seen fit to grant the Head Boy a room to himself, though its use for entertaining the chief Prefect of Ravenclaw in this particular manner may have come as a shock to them. _Or, not,_ reflected Garrick. By all accounts, Rowena has been a pretty open-minded sort.

Garrick slipped behind the crimson tapestries just as he finished his final walkabout after curfew. The room was in candlelight, save for the phoenix, which gave off a warm glow all of its own. “Hello, gorgeous.”

Albus looked up from his parchment and gave a broad smile. “You took your time.”

“Bit of a kerfuffle on the seventh floor between a second-year Slytherin and a particularly feisty suit of armour. But anyway…” Garrick strode across the room, and planted a kiss on Albus’ waiting lips, “I’m here _now._ ”

“And so you are.” They regarded each other, happily.

Garrick settled on Albus’ bed, just across from the desk, and cast his eyes around. “So, how’s your packing going?”

“Mmm. ‘Theoretically’, I’d say.” He gave a disarming smile.

“We _do_ leave on tour in three days, you know!”

“Yes, yes. I’ll pack! But I’ve been a bit busy writing letters, actually.”

“Mmm?”

“Yes. I‘m hoping to spend a few days with the Flamels when we get to Paris, and then in Rome, there’s this chap who’s marvellous on Alchemical transformations of pigment for magical portraiture… and I need to make a detour to Bavaria to see Adalbert Waffling…so, you know, there’s a lot to do.”

Garrick shook his head in fond exasperation. “Well, you’d better run all that by Elphie! You know he’s been working on the itinerary since before Christmas, and he _did_ ask us all for final confirmation and bookings four weeks ago…” Albus fluttered his eyelashes in a butter-wouldn’t-melt sort of way, and Garrick couldn’t help but waive the point. “But honestly, you ought to see _his_ packing. There are so many boxes, and boxes within boxes, and folders and catalogue cards and cross-listed inventories, you’d think he was about to open some kind of Swedish department store.”

Albus tipped his head to one side. “What’s a ‘department store’?”

Garrick laughed. “I don’t really know. A Muggle thing, apparently. It’s what Alka Svenborg said in the common room when she saw Elphie’s colour-coding system.”

“Mmm.” Garrick watched as Albus filed that away for future use; there was never a piece of new knowledge that he considered unimportant.

Indeed, on such a note, Garrick thought the time might be ripe to _ask_. He stood up and chewed his lip, then shifted a bit from foot to foot. The phoenix looked down imperiously from his perch, plumage glistening in every shade of fire. “Albus, um… I think I might have mentioned this before but…”

“You do, do you?” He smirked.

“..Yes. Well. Anyway. You know that I’ve been working on a new hypothesis of wand-making: the Three Master Cores.”

Albus rolled his eyes. “I know!”

“Yes, yes. I _know_ you know, but I’m _really_ sure about it now. More sure every day. I’ve read an old article by Gamp, and cross-referenced that with some of the early observations of Merlin on Magical Substances… and then, last week, I saw a manuscript that’s just been published by an Alchemist called Giovanni Apollini in Naples – we must try to visit him, by the way – that said it’s the _desiccated_ properties of a substance that really matter, and the most stable are those that don’t much change from living to dried, like hair, and-”

“-Feathers.”

“Yes, precisely – feathers!” Garrick really hoped that he was getting somewhere. “So… So… about Fawkes…” 

“Will you leave my phoenix’s arse out of this?”

“I better concentrate on your arse instead, then.” They both grinned. Garrick tried again: “But, really…”

Now, it was Albus’ turn to shake his head in fond exasperation, as he stood. “You know I’d like to help you. I really would, my dear.”

“We could try again.” Garrick looked at him imploringly.

Albus raised his eyebrows. “Well, the first time he set you on fire and you were in the infirmary for a week. The second time, when I tried, he flew away and didn’t return for _two_ weeks. If I do that again, I’m pretty sure they’ll be no feathers, _and_ I will have lost him forever.” That gave them both pause; Garrick knew how attached Albus was to Fawkes. 

“I read about it, actually,” continued Albus, “From Gathivick et al., 1794: ‘as the Phoenix dies and is reborn on earth, every part of its matter contains its soul, and is touched by the soul of its companion’. Therefore Phoenixes never shed feathers like other birds; all are needed in the ash for the new bird to arise. You can’t just pluck them.”

It sounded convincing, but Garrick needed a counter-argument. “So why do Apothecary shops sometimes sell them? For thousands of Galleons, mind – but the feathers _do_ exist on the open market, don’t they?”

“Ah,” Albus smiled, clearly ready to tell the rest of the story, “very rarely, a Phoenix may choose to _donate_ a feather. It could be described as, ‘an act of love’.”

The soft, round words spread out to find their place among the tapestries and candlelight, and all of a sudden the room seemed very quiet. Both boys became a little pink about the cheeks; Albus seemed to remember that he had to tidy the papers on his desk, and Garrick became at once very interested in the buckles of his shoes.

“I suppose I had… better be going, then,” said Garrick.

That startled Albus. “Really? Must you?”

“-No.” It was so quick, so instinctive, Garrick only barely registered how foolish he must have seemed to contradict himself so quickly. “I mean… not unless you want me to…”

“Come here.” Albus opened his arms. Without thinking, Garrick rushed into the embrace, quickly finding Albus’ lips with his own. The kisses began gentle and tender, but soon filled with heat, tongues questing and Garrick’s fingers running through Albus’ long, silky hair.

Within moments, robes fell to the floor, and shirts and buttons were pushed aside to reveal smooth, hot skin. At times like this, Garrick still couldn’t believe how lucky he was; that of all the students in the castle, Albus – the most wonderful, remarkable, sensational, _beautiful_ of all – wanted to be intimate with _him_. 

They had been friends since first year, of course – but over the past ten months or so, their association had grown and changed into something so marvellous, so exotic, that it made Garrick’s skin tingle just to think about it. And when they were together – like now, when he could feel Albus’ torso against his own, and Albus’ lips at the shell of his ear, licking and nibbling, hot breath cascading down the curve of his neck – Garrick thought he might just burst into flames, like the bird whose feathers he so inquisitively sought.

They tumbled down onto the bed in a mess of limbs and tangled clothing, and then, with a well-placed Charm or two, there was nothing between them but heat, eagerness, and lubrication. Garrick knew that the closer they reached to complete abandon, the more yielding Albus became. He was spread-eagled now, eyes shut in bliss and arms arrayed about his head in surrender, his hair haloing his form like fiendfyre exquisitely suspended in the briefest sliver of time. 

Garrick didn’t want to shut his eyes lest he miss a second – any moment that he could take away and treasure, recalling the exact angle of Albus’ jaw as he tilted it upward to allow access to demanding, throat-sucking kisses, or the flutter of his eyelashes as they pressed into each other, so good, so close…

And the noises; oooh, the noises. The whimpers of delight as Garrick tweaked Albus’ nipple; the gasps as his tongue ventured downwards; the full-throated moans as Garrick sunk himself into Albus’ willing body, open and wanting and giving and needing, all at once.

Indeed, for all his Youth-Representative-to-the-Wizengamot and Winner-of-the-Barnabus-Finkley-Exceptional-Spellcasting-Prize, Albus was so beautifully _pliant_ – and even as he panted and thrusted, Garrick marvelled that he was the only one who was a part of that; how somehow Albus seemed to want to give of himself, to let someone else be in charge of the magic and fireworks, just for a change… and he was the one who got to do it.

And magic and fireworks, there certainly were. By the time they shouted their release, Garrick and Albus were both breathless, dizzy, and flooded with such euphoria, it was as if a gallon of Amortentia had been plumbed into their very veins. Wheezing as he collapsed on Albus’ chest, Garrick could not imagine any rapture greater than this.

They held each other for some time, with comfort and gentleness, neither saying a word. The candlelight created softly flickering shadows about them, two bodies as one.

Presently, Fawkes cawed softly from his perch. Albus rose to check on his familiar. From his position on the bed, Garrick could see only Albus’ silhouette, framed by the glow of the phoenix, like the encircling flares of the sun. 

Albus stopped there, still and silent, his face still turned away.

“Is everything alright?” asked Garrick, when he could bear the pause no longer.

Slowly, Albus turned and walked back toward Garrick, looking far more naked than merely his state of undress could explain. In his hand were two long, miraculous feathers, richly luminescent in the quivering darkness.

“It seems we like you.” Albus smiled bashfully. He presented Garrick with the two beautiful, burnished stems. “Use them well, won’t you, my dear?”

*****

Garrick shook himself out of the reverie, even as the feather called to him like an old love. He could have communed with it for hours; so much depth and truth and history was within, he wondered absurdly how he could ever have brought himself to have sold it in the first place. Then, Garrick thought back to _both_ those sales and shuddered a little; the less that could be said about that wand’s brother, the better.

Realising that all eyes were still very much on him, Garrick made himself test the holly wand with a nice, showy, non-verbal Charm. It wouldn’t do, to let on in public. _It wouldn’t do, at all._

A jolly fountain of wine splashed forth, and the Potter boy looked grateful to be handed back his wand. He scuttled to his seat. It was only afterward that it occurred to Garrick that the wand had not said anything at all of young Harry’s tenancy. _Ah, well_. The instrument was in fine working order; what’s the worst that could happen? It would not be wise to dwell on such things, after all.

The ceremony at an end, Albus strode forward to address the assembled company. “My greatest thanks to Master Wandmaker, Mr. Ollivander, for conducting our proceedings so very professionally.” His voice was hot chocolate and plums, and the ripple of applause that ensued, a warming hearth fire.

The assembled company then dispersed, the foreign Headteachers taking their respective charges aside for the whispering of tactical advice. The two Hogwarts boys left together, the elder taking the younger under his wing. That just left Garrick and Albus, alone in the vaulted room.

“Masterfully done,” said Albus, again.

“Thank you.” It was clear that Albus was laying it on a bit thick, but Garrick couldn’t deny that he liked the praise. “So, um...” he cast around at the blank space around him, “What happens now? I presume that there may be wand repair needed during the actual contest, but…” It seemed to Garrick that, job now done, he was suddenly rather surplus to requirements.

“Indeed; we would be most grateful if you would be so kind as to stay until the Tasks are over. But only if you have time, of course.”

“Yes.” Garrick was abashed at how quickly he had agreed. “I mean… as it’s important, I think I shall be able to make arrangements…”

“Marvellous.” Albus grinned, like some particularly well-fed Kneazle. “And for this evening – well, I was wondering whether perhaps you’d like to come up to my rooms? My phoenix has a bit of an itchy tail feather, if you see what I mean?”

Garrick gasped when he saw the twinkle in Albus’ eyes – and then felt his own eyes widen, his mouth go slack, his heart leap into his throat and do somersaults, and then his face, unbidden by him, break out into the very broadest of smiles.

Albus chuckled. “This way then, my dear.”

They climbed the shifting staircases while warmth and humour lapped around them from the excited body of students, criss-crossing hither and yon like currents and ripples of the lake. Garrick felt that he was walking through some kind of dream; up and up; ascending finally into the twisting spiral staircase that marked the boundary of Albus’ most intimate realm.

When they were both within that fascinating chamber of things that whirred and clicked and smelled of fresh ink and great ideas and second chances, Albus warded the door, and tipped his head genially toward Garrick; in invitation; in question.

Elated and foggy, Garrick bathed in Albus’ regard. Then, sentiments bubbled up and tried to make themselves known – end-on-end; all at once. “But I thought… That is, you said… and then we didn’t… I mean, I _couldn’t_ … after all that had been and all that I…” He stopped even trying to make words do his bidding as the lump in his throat threatened to well up into tears. 

Albus placed a steadying hand on Garrick’s shoulder. “I may have got over myself a bit, in recent years.” There was humour there, but an earnestness, also. Garrick looked up to meet those startling blue eyes, and his breath was taken away by the sincerity he found there. “I’m so sorry for pushing you away. It was my loss. My life would have been immeasurably better, together with you.”

Garrick took a steading breath, his mind spinning like the golden instruments about them. Finally, he spoke again: “Well, we had better see about making up for some lost time, then.” He smiled, feeling giddy.

It was difficult to tell what ensued next – passionate conversation, or ardent kisses. In Garrick’s mind they were almost one of the same.

-And then later, when Garrick felt Albus’ long fingers tangling in his hair, the heat of his breath and the heat of his mouth, he could almost fool himself that he really was _back at Hogwarts_ – the years and their scars rolled away, to that time of carefree hope and boundless opportunity. Where there hadn’t been any tragedy, any war, any separation. Where two boys who may have loved one another might have had a chance. To be brilliant; to be together.

Garrick felt almost overwhelmed by Albus’ brilliance, now, though – mind, body and heart. The years had not dimmed his magnetism; his allure; the spellbinding way he melted under Garrick’s touch. 

Their consummation was not as vigorous as in their youth, but perhaps all the more tender for it. They savoured each other, simultaneously exploring and revisiting, finding curves and bulges and nerve-endings that were at once familiar and new. To Garrick, being with Albus again was like walking into a circle of magical fire. Uplifting and transcendental, it was as if he had been slumbering for decades in some kind of half-state, only now to be awakened again to the full joy and mystery of being alive.

For a moment, he thought about Daisy, but Garrick couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty – because she wouldn’t be hurt, because she wouldn’t find out. His morals were practical, like that.

Besides, the man he was with – silver hair spread on the pillows, writhing beneath him, gasping his name – _this_ was the love of Garrick’s life. However fleetingly he was allowed, he had to drink from this chalice – for solace, for renewal, for existence itself.

That night, Garrick closed his eyes and held Albus tight. _The wand chooses the wizard,_ Garrick always said. He knew that his soul had made its choice long ago, and now – however fleetingly – it was with the wizard who let its magic shine best.


End file.
